I have waited, I have longed,
I have longed as none can know,
All my spring and summer time,
For this day to come and go;
And the foolish heart was mine,
Dreaming I would see them shine,—
Harlequin and Columbine
And Pierrot!
Now the laughing has gone by,
On the highway from the inn;
And the dust has settled down,
And the house is dead within.
And I stay—who never go—
Looking out upon the snow,
Columbine and Pierrot
And Harlequin!
All the rainbow things you see
Understream are not so fine;
And their voices weave and cling
Like my honeysuckle vine,
Lovely as a violin!—
Mellow gold and silver-thin:
Pierrot and Harlequin
And Columbine!
Oh, the people that have seen,
They forget that it was so!
They, who never stay at home,
Say, "'Tis nothing but a show."
—And I keep the passion in:
And I bide; and I spin.
Columbine . . . Harlequin
. . . Pierrot!
—Josephine Preston Peabody